Goofy Blue Goggles

"Medics will life flight him to the nearest critical care facility." The words seemed normal to my ears, in tone and content. Still lying on the living room floor, my husband looked up at me with his blue eyes that could talk without sound. “A stroke,” says ambulance paramedics, and off they went.

Weeks of critical care, neurosurgery for removal of blood on the brain and pneumonia lead to near death in Week 4. The lights in those blue eyes went dim, but not dark. I knew he would not want to live by artificial means or be a burden on anyone. Life support was removed. In the following 3 days he showed minor improvement while still bedridden. After months of physical and speech therapy, I brought my husband back home for Thanksgiving to the same living room where it all happened. Brain-damaged, partially paralyzed in one arm and hand, peripheral blindness in one eye and a diagnosis of vascular dementia resulted from a hemorrhagic stroke. Hemorrhagic stroke, of course, is one of the worst kinds of strokes. He regained swallowing and speech abilities and could walk, albeit a little wobbly. A few doctors, but not all, opined that the road to recovery would be long, but successful. That’s when we started a journey to recovery that veered in a different direction. Despite successful survival, much damage remained unrepaired. No stretch of the imagination can find anyone claiming this man is back to normal or self-sustaining.

A normal-looking bedroom doorway in our home is the entrance to a safe room set up for my husband’s daily needs. It became a portal to a world that only he can see, hear, and understand. Every morning, I cross that threshold to the make-believe world of the battered brain matter of a man who can no longer dress himself, feed himself, drive, cook, shave, bathe, use a phone, remember who I am or where he is. Droopy eyelids make it difficult to see those blue eyes, but they still talk. The talk, now, is 99% about confusion, hallucinations, and delusions. The seasoned eyes of a husband, father, and grandfather are now covered with some kind of invisible goofy blue goggles. My world is all about managing a 3-year-old child in a 74-year-old man’s body. A 3-year-old who will never grow up. His world reflects a lot of mundane magic regarding explanations of the most simple of life’s boring details.

—How did your shoes get on the wrong feet, your pants are on inside out and backwards, your hoodie is upside down, and/or why are you wearing 3 hats? He offers no account. It must, therefore, be magic.

—Why did you empty a half-case of Pepsi soda pop cans, place the cans on top of the mini refrigerator in your room, and then open all 12 cans? Again, magic, because he wasn’t involved.

—How did an entire roll of paper towels end up in the toilet? He shrugs this off as trivial and takes no responsibility. Magic, again, in this special chamber of his, and his alone, in the house. Trust me, no one else wants to share this bathroom.

—Why did he throw a cell phone in the garbage? It’s a mystery.

—Who turned on the water in the bathroom sink and left it running long enough to run the entire house out of hot water? No magic there as he thinks, perhaps, family cats are involved.

—Who ate all the cheesecake and left only the fork in the pan? Could have been magic, but he thinks the blame falls on a house mouse. A mouse, I might add, that eats with an adult-sized fork.

—Who threw his clothes and shoes over the 3rd floor deck railing and landed in the yard? He wants to know when and then claims they were not his belongings. One can only assume the clothing and shoes appeared out of thin air.

—Why is every pair of his socks lying on the floor instead of in a dresser drawer? He claims not to see the problem. I physically turn his body around so he can see the problem with his one good eye. Then there’s a slight acknowledgement, but no logical explanation for this quandary.

—Thermostat wars happen many times per day, every day, all year long. When I’m not in the room, a thermostat in the bathroom and another one in the bedroom advance to the highest setting possible. The electric bill has quadrupled.

—An infatuation with breakfast cereal is an ongoing reality not worth arguing over or trying to divert his attention toward healthier choices. One morning, I’m surprised to see Cocoa Puffs strewn all over the carpeted floor. You know the drill. I ask how this happened, and he denies involvement and offers no explanation. A magic mess, indeed. Then he asks if I can turn on the Golf Channel? That’s when I ask him if he can pick up the Cocoa Puffs?

—The opposite of something magically appearing is something magically disappearing into thin air. A pair of disposable underwear, required from Day 1, go missing. A fresh pair was on his body when he went to bed. At sunrise, the underwear is gone. He’s the only one in the room at night.

—A far too often conversation often goes something like this:

Him: “Are those keys to the boat?”

Me: “Where is there a boat?”

Him: “You are standing in it right now.”

Me: “This is your bedroom inside our 3-story house.”

Him: “This is a house?”

Me: “Yes. We don’t have a boat.”

Him: “Then you need to go home.”

Me: “Are you releasing me from my duties as your caretaker?”

Him: “I guess. Why don’t you sit down first and eat something?”

Laughter is the best medicine for me. I try to get in the right mindset before I pass through the portal and enter the chamber every day, where I will witness illogical observations, engage in weird conversations, navigate confrontations and often times find a disaster. Each day starts with a new script. Each new script, real or imagined, starts behind a normal bedroom door.